


an unbreaking

by somehowunbroken



Series: to live within [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Creepy, Gen, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-08 05:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16423724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: Connor isn't Toronto's, not like Mitch is. Most people aren't.Edmonton has something to say about that.





	an unbreaking

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween! i wrote a sweet soft thing for HBB and immediately decided to write a companion piece about how the whole thing could go terribly wrong!! /jazz hands
> 
> thanks to ari for looking this over <3

Connor's heard the stories about Edmonton.

She's cold, people say. She's too passionate. She's too hungry, too intense.

(She takes the best of you, people whisper, as if that will keep her from hearing. She leaves behind a shell, filled with bitterness and anger and the kind of revulsion that doesn't wash off easily.)

But hockey is hockey is hockey, and Connor knows as soon as the lottery is over that he'll have to make his peace with it. The curse of being first, Dylan has said a dozen times, a hundred; it had been funny, when they'd daydreamed about Buffalo winning, about Toronto picking Dylan. It's not funny anymore, not with Edmonton's eyes lighting up and a wild, frightening smile spreading over her face as the cards are flipped. Connor can see Dylan swallow hard, watches as his fingers flex.

"Edmonton is a great place," Connor says when the cameras pan to him. He hopes his voice doesn't shake.

He knows it does, anyway.

-0-

The draft would probably be more exciting if the outcome wasn't set in stone, or if the stone wasn't quite so orange and blue, Connor thinks as he settles into his seat. It's easy to distract himself, at least; Dylan waves at him from across the seating area, and Connor flaps his hands back in return, and it's easy to be like this, carefree and almost silly, because the alternative is thinking about it. The alternative is looking down as the cities and teams gather at their tables; the alternative is watching Chiarelli lean in to say something, to watch Edmonton ignore him completely as she scans the crowd, to watch her find him and then not look away.

(He doesn't watch. He doesn't. TSN is all too happy to show him a highlight pack after, though.)

There's no muttered commentary when Edmonton stands and makes her way to the podium; nobody would dare, Connor thinks. She might hear them, and he's heard enough stories about Edmonton that he knows most of the other guys are too afraid of her to risk drawing her attention. She looks old, Connor thinks as she walks up the stairs. Not her face, really, or her body, but something about her looks… tired, maybe. Like she's put up with too much for too long, and she's been told too many times that the end is in sight only to be let down in the most brutal fashion.

Connor sits up a little straighter and watches, intent now, as she leans in to call his name. There's cheering, shouting, a lot of hugs from his family, but that's all to be expected. He somehow wasn't expecting the sudden itch under his skin, his need to walk almost too quickly down the stairs, to reach out and clasp Edmonton's hands in his own. They're cold, thin, frail; there's a sharpness to her gaze, though, when Connor leans in so she can press a kiss to his forehead. It makes something hum in his chest as a shiver runs down his spine, and he should maybe worry about that, but there's protocol first: he offers her his arm, escorts her off the stage, leads her back to where they'll have everyone take photos and sign a few pucks.

"Wait," he says, right before they head backstage. He turns to her, sees the quizzical expression on her face, and he gestures to the stage, where Phoenix is walking up the stairs. "Can we—my friend Dylan. This might be him, and I'd like to see it."

"Mr. McDavid," one of the handlers says, nerves clear in his voice. Connor doesn't turn to him; he's sure the guy is just trying to do his job, but he's not who Connor's asking, not whose permission he needs. "We don't—"

"We can watch," Edmonton says, her voice clear and crisp and leaving absolutely no room for argument. She nods at him sharply and turns slightly to face the guy who had spoken up. "He is mine now, and I say that he can watch."

"Okay," the guy says, and Connor's facing the stage again already, but he can hear that the guy's nervousness hasn't gone down any. "Okay, I'll just… I'll let them know we'll be a minute."

"We don't need a guide," Edmonton says, dismissive. "We will find our way."

"I'm supposed to," the guy starts, then falls silent.

Connor's glad that Phoenix leans forward and calls Dylan's name then. For Dylan's sake, absolutely, but also because it gives him a reason to not turn around and see what the guy's so afraid of.

He's got the feeling that he'll figure it out soon enough on his own.

-0-

"So," Mitch says, grinning at Connor. They're all in Sunrise for a few nights, and then it'll be off to whatever city claimed them after that. It's supposed to be some kind of "stick around and watch the draft" thing, but so far for Connor, it's been a lot of time with his family. It's late now, though, and Mitch had texted a bunch of exclamation points and a photo of a bottle of liquor that his brother had given him, so Connor hadn't really hesitated to leave his hotel room. "Edmonton."

"Edmonton," Connor agrees. "She's…"

"She's scary," Dylan says, leaving no room for argument. "Like, I'm sure you'll get used to her or whatever, but… dude."

Connor feels a rush of annoyance; he's not sure where it's coming from, so he swallows it down and shrugs a little. "Phoenix seems nice," he says instead of snapping. "And dude. Marns. _Toronto._ "

Mitch smiles, and his eyes glint blue and white in the light from the lamp. Connor would think it was a trick of the light, but he's known Mitch for a while now, and he knows that where he ended up wasn't actually a shock for him, either. "Toronto," Mitch echoes, voice reverent, and he laughs. "Dude."

"Phoenix," Dylan interjects, and when Connor looks at him, he's grinning. "Even though I'm not actually, y'know. Playing in Phoenix."

Connor laughs. "I mean, close enough, I guess," he says. "It might help people stop calling them the Phoenix Coyotes if Phoenix stopped coming to the draft, though."

"Probably not," Dylan says, rolling his eyes a little. "But, like. Imagine if I get to play with Shane Doan."

"Nazem Kadri," Mitch says, voice a little awed.

"I'm just another first overall in Edmomton," Connor says, sighing as dramatically as he can. "I don't know how I'll stick out."

Dylan out-and-out laughs. "Like you weren't talking about how much you could learn from Nugent-Hopkins, like, six hours ago," he teases. "Like you haven't thought about having Hall and Eberle as your wingers at least a dozen times already."

It's been a lot more than a dozen times, but Dylan doesn't need that confirmed. "I just hope it's not weird," Connor says, shrugging a little. "It could be… really weird."

Mitch leans over so he can clink his plastic cup against Connor's. "Here's to it not being weird," he declares. "Drink."

And yeah, okay. Connor can do that.

-0-

It takes far less time to find his place in Edmonton than he'd thought it would.

Management wants him living with a teammate; there are meetings about it, apparently, and when Taylor Hall calls him to offer up his guest room, Connor doesn't hesitate to accept. It'll look good, sure, but Hallsy seems like a nice enough guy, if a bit of a weird one sometimes. Hallsy seems relieved when he accepts, which is one of the weird things about him, or so Connor thinks until Hallsy laughs. "Man, I wasn't looking forward to telling her you said no."

"Her?" Connor asks, but he doesn't need to, not really.

Sure enough, he's not surprised when Hallsy answers. "Edmonton," he says. "She told me I was the best choice, and, well."

"You don't have to," Connor feels obligated to say. There's something strange tugging in his chest, but he ignores it, frowning a little. "I'm sure I could stay with someone else."

"Kinda _do_ have to," Hallsy says, voice amused in a way Connor doesn't really know how to understand. "It's not like I don't want to, Davo. It's fine, I swear."

"Okay," Connor says, still frowning. He rubs a little absently at his chest. "If you say so."

"So," Hallsy says immediately, and it makes Connor smile.

It doesn't make the feeling in his chest go away, though.

-0-

Edmonton is waiting when Connor gets off the plane.

It's not like security could stop her; Connor's never met Toronto, but he's known Mitch long enough to know that cities have their own methods of getting from place to place, and little things like security checkpoints wouldn't be a consideration at all. Not that security would probably even _try_ to stop her, he thinks wryly as he walks to stand in front of her. Everyone else is giving her kind of a wide berth, he notices a little absently, but she's there for him, so he doesn't hesitate to approach.

"You are here," she says, voice rough like she's getting over a bad cough or something.

"Yeah," he replies, shrugging a little. "You knew I'd come."

She reaches out and puts her hand on his chest, palm flat, right over his heart. "I did."

Connor shivers, even though it's the end of August and even the heavy-duty air conditioning of the airport can't cut through the heaviness of the humidity in the air. "So I'm here," he says, more for something to say than because he means anything by it.

"So you are," Edmonton says, looking up at him. They stand like that for a moment, maybe two, her hand pressed against his chest as he stands there and wonders why he doesn't really feel the need to move away. He's not sure how long she's going to keep them there, but she sighs and pulls her hand away before it gets weird. Or, Connor thinks as he glances around, before it gets _too_ weird. Nobody's looking at them, but it's definitely in a purposeful way. There's probably no chance that everyone missed the little moment he'd just experienced.

"Where to?" he asks, shifting a little on his feet. "I mean, I thought Hallsy was picking me up, but…"

She tilts her head a little, and Connor stifles a gasp as her eyes go liquid colour, orange and blue running like rivers through her irises. "He is here," she says, blinking, and Connor has to wonder if he'd imagined it, because her eyes are their normal brown as she meets his gaze. "Find him. We will see each other soon, Connor McDavid."

"Okay," Connor says, and it's like—she's there one second, and then she's not. Or at least, she's not standing in front of him; Connor would know where she was no matter what, he thinks, because he can feel her, can tell she's nearby even though she's not standing in front of him anymore. He stands there for a moment more, considering it, before shrugging and shifting his carry-on. He'll go find Hallsy, and he'll ask if the whole "feeling the city" thing is common. Maybe it's a first-overall thing.

It's not until much, much later, tucked safely into Hallsy's spare room and unpacking the duffle bag he'd brought with him, that he realises that the weird feeling he's had in his chest since the draft is gone, and he hasn't felt it once since he got off the plane.

-0-

"Hey, Davo," Nuge says, snowing Connor as he stops short beside him. He grins briefly, which is what lets Connor know that it was completely on purpose, so he rolls his eyes. "Hallsy said you've got some… city issues."

Something flares in his chest. "I don't have issues," he snaps, and then shakes his head, blinking a little at the ferocity in his voice. "Sorry, that was… sorry. I have no idea why I reacted like that."

"I might have an idea," Nuge says, and this time his smile is a little more strained, a little worried around the edges, maybe. "Lunch after practice? I'm buying."

"Sure," Connor says a little warily. "Is this some kind of rookie prank thing? Because if it is—"

Nuge takes off one of his gloves and drops it, pressing his bare hand to Connor's chest, right over his heart. Connor shuts his mouth, because it's right where Edmonton had put her hand, right where the pulsing, rolling feeling of sudden, bitter resentment that feels entirely unlike him is rearing its head. "It's not a rookie prank thing," Nuge says quietly. He's looking intently at Connor. "It's… you know what this is, Connor."

Connor tries to swallow, fails, tries again. "What," he says, feeling unsteady on his skates for the first time in a long, long time."

"Lunch," Nuge repeats, pulling his hand back. The feeling doesn't stop, doesn't intensify, doesn't change at all. "We need to talk about cities, I think."

"Yeah," Connor says. "I don't… is it okay? Am I?"

Nuge laughs a little, wiping at his face with the back of his hand before bending over to retrieve his glove. "Mostly. Probably."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Nuge's smile twists at the corner. "Not really," he says, and then he skates away.

The rest of practice… is, and that's the most Connor could tell you about it; they're in preseason now, but Coach is juggling lines and switching up pairings like it's the only thing that brings him joy in life, so Connor doesn't let himself feel bad for sort of mentally checking out of the remaining half hour on the ice. He's trying to figure out if he should be more worried or less about whatever Nuge has to tell him over lunch, but by the time they're hitting the showers, he's no closer to an answer on that one.

"I'll drive," Nuge says as Connor bends down to tie his sneakers. He hadn't bothered to dry his hair at all, and he can feel water running down the back of his shirt; it's a little gross, but the humidity's gonna be a lot worse the second he steps outside, so he's not super worried about it.

"Yeah, okay," Connor says, shrugging a little. "Let me tell Hallsy that I'm—"

"He knows," Nuge cuts in. "He's the one who told me to talk to you, remember?"

"Yeah," Connor says. He's not really sure why he's so reluctant; he genuinely likes Nuge, thinks he's a solid guy, and anyone who can make fun of Hallsy and get away with it as much as Nuge does is a winner in Connor's book. He knows he's dragging his feet, but he has no idea _why,_ and it's that more than anything else that makes him stand up. "Okay. Lunch."

"Lunch," Nuge agrees, leading him out of the building and to his car.

They head to a quiet hole-in-the-wall sandwich place, where Connor is incredibly tempted to get a burger and fries but ends up with some sort of salad piled high with chicken and vegetables. It's surprisingly good, even if he still sort of wants fries. They eat in silence for a little while; Connor's not exactly grateful for it, because the longer Nuge waits the more certain Connor is that this is going to be something awful, but he keeps determinedly eating his salad and seeing how long it'll be before Nuge deems him ready to hear whatever it is he's got to say.

"So," Nuge finally says, once the waiter has stopped by to take their plates. "Based on what Hallsy has told me, you've probably been having weird, intense reactions to things that normally wouldn't bother you at all, you zone out if you look out a window for more than about half a minute, and the idea of going on an extended road trip probably makes you feel like you can't get enough air."

Connor had opened his mouth to reply, to confirm or question, maybe, but he's suddenly hit with the idea of a six-game road trip, hotel after plane after hotel in unfamiliar cities, too long spent away from home. It's like something is settling on top of his chest, slowly pressing the air from his lungs, and Connor grips hard at the side of the table.

"Hey, here, with me," Nuge says, gentle and calm, and he touches the back of Connor's hand. "Take a sip of your water. Focus on holding the glass."

Connor reaches out a little blindly and Nuge pushes the cup to him. The glass is cool, Connor notes. There's condensation on the outside, and it's refreshing to take a sip, to feel the water wash away the sour, stale taste in his mouth. It takes him a few minutes to get his breathing under control, but Nuge lets him take his time; when Connor finally feels like he's back in the driver's seat of his own body, Nuge is smiling at him a little ruefully.

"What the fuck is going on?" Connor asks, voice a little raspy.

Nuge lets out a slow breath. "A turf war, technically," he says. "That's what it was for me, at least."

"A turf war," Connor echoes. "Sure, sounds right, except for the part where that doesn't make any sense."

"Yeah, well," Nuge says, laughing a little. "Edmonton has a habit of… taking people. It's one thing if you move to a new place for good and you really settle in, your city really does change, but for people like us…"

Connor shakes his head slowly. "But I'm not—Marns is Toronto's. Mitch Marner. I'm not…"

"Where's home for you?" Nuge asks. "Other than Hallsy's."

"My parents' place near Toronto," Connor answers. "But I'm not _Toronto's._ "

"You're more Toronto's than you are anywhere else's," Nuge says. "Or, well. You were, and then you got drafted here, and Edmonton…"

"I don't get it," Connor says, frowning. "Almost everyone gets drafted away from where they'd call home."

Nuge sighs a little. "Okay, this is a little freaky," he cautions, and before Connor has the chance to ask for clarification, Nuge closes his eyes. He keeps them closed for a few seconds, but when he opens them back up, Connor startles and leans back.

One of his eyes is a swirl of green and bright blue, the colours dancing around each other, swimming together without ever combining. The other is half orange and half dark blue, split perfectly evenly down the middle. The colours don't move, don't dance around at all. Connor's seen Mitch's eyes change like this, both of them Toronto's blue and white, but this is—

"What," Connor tries. "What the fuck."

"I'm not Vancouver's," Nuge says. His eyes don't change back to normal, and it's honestly freakier hearing his everyday voice coming out of him with his eyes like that than it would be if he sounded different somehow. "But when I came here, Edmonton tried to… claim me, I guess. And the next time I was in Vancouver, she appeared to me for the first time, told me I could choose to _not_ be Edmonton's, and the next time I looked in a mirror, I saw this."

"So I'm," Connor says, trying to piece it together. "I'm like that? One Toronto part, one Edmonton part?"

Nuge shakes his head, and thankfully, his eyes go back to normal. "Right now, you're almost all Edmonton," he says. "And you can let it happen, if that's what you want, but all the feelings? She's… she's not great at keeping the city at large from spilling over."

"What do I do?" Connor asks. He's trying not to panic, he really is, but he can feel it rising, twisting in his gut.

"You go home and you get Toronto to anchor you, if that's what you want," Nuge says, voice calm. "Sooner rather than later, probably. You might want to fly back there between preseason and the start of the regular season, just to be safe."

Connor nods, head bobbing up and down jerkily. "How do I…" he asks. "Do I ask Marns?"

"You won't have to," Nuge says simply. "With the way you are right now, she'll find you when you get there."

-0-

Toronto is completely unlike Edmonton.

The buildings and traffic and weather are different, sure, but the woman who sits beside Connor on the park bench seems calmer, quieter, more sensible, somehow. Her hair is the silvery kind of gray, and it's pulled back in a bun; her eyes are the same swirling blue and white that Connor's seen on Mitch, and her face isn't gentle, but it does seem open, like she's willing to listen.

"I don't want this," Connor says, hearing his voice shake a little. "Nuge—my friend—he said that if I don't want to just be Edmonton's, that I have to ask for help."

"There's no shame in asking for help, child," Toronto says, tone gentle. "And I'm always willing to give it to those who want it from me, so long as they know what they're actually asking me for."

"For," Connor says, turning to face her fully. "An anchor. That's what Nuge said."

She hums a little. "The Vancouver boy," she says. "I remember him."

"You do?" Connor asks, his nervousness falling away for a moment, replaced by a bit of shock. "I didn't think he'd ever met you."

"I attend the draft," she reminds him, smiling faintly. "It's always interesting to see how everyone reacts to their new cities, and those who go first tend to leave an impression."

Connor forces out a laugh. "Really? What did you think about me when I went up there?"

"That Edmonton would not break you," she says simply. "And it appears that I was right."

"I don't know," Connor says, shaking his head a little and looking down. "I feel—I've only been here a few hours, and I'm not staying. My family doesn't even know I'm here, that's how fast I'm going back, and I already feel… bad. Because I'm not there."

"You are here," she agrees. "And you're asking for help, and I'm going to provide that help. Edmonton will not break you, Connor McDavid."

Connor lets out a ragged sigh and feels some of the tension drain from his shoulder. "Thank you. Thank you _so much._ "

"There will be changes," she says quietly. "You are not one of my children, and this will not make you one, but you will not be… unmarked."

"Nuge's eyes," Connor says. "One of them is Vancouver, and the other is Edmonton."

Toronto nods slowly. "Effective," she says after a moment. "I can give you that, if that is what you think best."

"I have no idea what's best," Connor says. He tries for a laugh, but it comes out hollow. "You're the expert, and the one helping me out. I'll do whatever you think is best."

She smiles, and this time there's something hard in it, something proud and defiant and strong. "You are of Toronto," she says, and there's _history_ in her voice somehow, harsh and brilliant and cold, joyful beyond measure and fraught with pain. She lays a hand on his arm. "Kneel a moment, child."

Connor doesn't question her; he slides off the bench and hits his knees, and he doesn't look up when she stands and walks so she's in front of him. Her hand slides into his hair, and it's freezing against his scalp even though it's still warm outside. He shivers, and she hums a little.

"You cannot be robbed of things you would not freely give," Toronto says, and there's something final to it. Connor waits a moment, than another, but she doesn't move; he's about to open his mouth and say something, thank her again or ask if there's something else, but she presses her fingertips against his scalp, and Connor _gasps._ He has no idea how to describe what he's feeling: it's like some cold kind of fire rushing through his entire body, travelling quickly from the top of his head down through his toes, and it hurts like nothing he's ever felt before. It's over before he can even manage to cry out, and when Toronto pulls her hand back, Connor falls forward, catching himself on his hands.

"You have my apologies for the pain, child," Toronto says, and her voice in back to being gentle. "Know that you will be safe now. No matter what happens, she cannot take the core of you."

"Will she know?" Connor asks. He's wondered about it; he hadn't wanted to ask before he did it, in case the answer made him chicken out, but there's no going back now. It's better to be prepared, probably.

"She will know," Toronto says evenly. "She will be… angry, I assume. She will not harm you, though."

Connor nods, pushing himself back to his knees and looking up at her. "Thank you," he says.

Toronto smiles at him. "You are welcome, child."

She starts walking backwards without looking, and Connor keeps watching until he can't see her anymore.

-0-

Edmonton meets him at the airport again.

"What have you done?" she asks, voice loud, shrill. It echoes in the arrivals terminal, and Connor notices as people slow to a stop, as they turn to stare at him as he walks slowly towards Edmonton. Her hair is a frazzled mess, and her clothing seems even more ragged than usual as she reaches for him. "She has changed your bones. Your _bones!_ "

 _She cannot take the core of you,_ Toronto had said. Well, Connor figures, it doesn't get much more the core of a person than their bones, probably.

He comes to a stop a few feet from Edmonton and meets her gaze straight on. "I'm here and I'm going to stay here for as long as the team will have me," he says, trying to keep his voice steady, unwavering. "I don't want to leave, but I'm not going to let you force me to stay."

"Everyone leaves," she says, eyes wild. "Is it so wrong that I want people to keep me as much as I want to keep them?"

Connor holds his ground, doesn't let out the shiver that's building in his spine. "Maybe if you asked first," he says. "Free will is a pretty big thing with humans."

Edmonton draws herself up, up, taller than Connor has ever seen her before. It's like she's found new steel in her own backbone as she's suddenly looking down her nose at him. "You'll regret this," she says, voice suddenly colder than Connor's been warned an Edmonton winter will be. It cuts through him like wind, but there's something steady and warm in him now, and he doesn't stumble back. "You'll regret this _soon._ "

"That's my decision to make," he replies. "Not yours."

She narrows her eyes at him, and then she turns and starts walking away. Her form slips quickly, and it's not long before Connor's staring out across the airport terminal, no trace of her in sight.

The feeling in his chest isn't pulling him or pushing him or making him uneasy. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, thinking about an east coast road trip, and all he can feel is a sense of excitement about games yet to be played. He still feels Edmonton, the sense of home and rightness as he stands in the airport, but the almost crushing feelings from before are nowhere to be found.

Toronto was right, Connor thinks as he makes his way out of the airport. Edmonton isn't going to break him.

**Author's Note:**

> -and then!  
> -he broke  
> -his collarbone
> 
> ETA: i was asked about taylor hall! never ask me about taylor hall. i always write sad things.  
> https://archiveofourown.org/comments/191635097


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